


First Sight

by rachel614 (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU: canon compliant, Awesome Molly Hooper, Awkward Sherlock Holmes, F/M, Jim is a scary bastard, There’s gonna be loads of angst but hopefully lots of fluff too, kind of swaplock but not really
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-25
Updated: 2019-01-29
Packaged: 2019-10-15 22:56:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17537897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/rachel614
Summary: It’s just that, at first, he isn’t anything special. Well, that’s a lie. He’s always been extraordinary, and always will be. But he isn’t anything special to her. He is just a really fit bloke, who is also a complete tosser.————The one where Molly isn’t in love with Sherlock. At least, she thinks she isn’t.AU following canon events where Sherlock developes an unrequited crush.*UPDATE* Just changes the title from Gravity (she likes the company anyway) to something way less clunky and awful, because the author always reserves the right to have a Better Idea.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I’ve got about 4 works in progress and 1 complete, none of which I’ve posted because 1) I hate posting multi-chap fics before I’ve finished them because then I never will 2) I write stuff by hand and then I have to actually type it up (this one took well over an hour, because it was with my phone :p) and 3) my stories always seem to be reaaaaally long stream of consciousness stuff that doesn’t split well into chapters.
> 
> That being said, I wanted to post *something* and this seemed like the best choice. Will eventually be four or five chapters (about one per season) and will take us through past TFP.
> 
> So give it up for a Molly who won’t take any shit from the beginning and a Sherlock who’s lost before he knew he was at war.

In later years, Molly is always embarrassed to admit that she doesn’t remember the day she first meets Sherlock Holmes. It’s just that, at first, he isn’t anything special. Well, that’s a lie. He’s always been extraordinary, and always will be. But he isn’t anything special to _her_. He is just a really fit bloke, who is also a complete tosser.

 

—x•x•x—

 

Sherlock will freely admit that he doesn’t remember the day he meets Molly Hooper. If you get him very, very drunk, he may tell you about the day he first _notices_ her, the day that is ingrained in his memory forever.

He’s beating a corpse with a riding crop. An old colleague, apparently. Nice. He doesn’t bother listening too closely to her cheerful chatter, but he doesn’t cut her off either. She’s the best pathologist in the department, and even Sherlock Holmes will resist alienating excellence, for the sake of the Work.

 

“Bad day, was it?” she says when he finishes, a wry grin on her face. Why is she speaking to him? Doesn’t she know he abhors inane chatter? He shoots her a scathing glare.

She laughs at him.

“Text me the bruising pattern that forms in the next forty-five minutes,” he tells her curtly. “A man’s alibi depends on it.” She’s still laughing at him as he strides away, his coat swishing around him.

 

—x•x•x—

 

Sherlock knows intimately the laughter of mockery, in all its shades.

Molly Hooper’s laugh is different. There is no rancor, no bitterness born of pride and envy. Her laugh is born of honest delight at his contrariness.

It’s a laugh that begs to be shared, and he hears it in the back of his mind for days.

 

—x•x•x—

 

Molly isn’t sure how she gets pulled into the orbit of Sherlock Holmes.

He’s compelling, she admits. And looking at the others—John Watson, Martha Hudson, Greg Lestrade—she supposed she’s in good company.

He’s still a tosser. He’s abrasive and impatient. Comes in at all hours, and requisitions lab equipment and body parts with all the glee of a child in a sweet shop given carte blanche by his older brother.

 

Molly isn’t sure how much of what he asks for is really permitted by his clearance, and when he demands she stay and run tests at the end of a ten hour shift, she nearly snaps at him and goes home.

Instead, she snaps at him and stays, because his work is important and she believes that for all his arrogance, Sherlock Holmes is a genius, and maybe even a bit of a friend.

 

She likes the company, anyways.

 

—x•x• ~~~~ ~~~~x—

 

One day she writes about him on her blog—a post fueled by wine and self-castigation that her _one time_ offer to grab him a cuppa has somehow added “coffee-girl and general dogsbody” to her already lengthy list of unpaid extra duties.

 

 

> _One of these days, I swear I’ll put my foot down. It’s ridiculous that I should be at his beck and call, just because no one else is nice enough to do it._
> 
>  
> 
> _God, I’m too nice. And too easily flattered by the fact that he only wants to work with me. He’s so brilliant it’s like he’s burning, and I can’t help but be drawn in, even if I hate him a little bit._
> 
>  
> 
> _At least he knows to flatter my brain instead of my hair, after that one time I ripped him a new one over harassment in the lunch line._
> 
> _The look on Sherlock’s face was almost worth all the extra coffees. The bastard needs someone to throw him off balance now and again._

 

She’s horribly embarrassed when she realizes she let his name slip, but at least she meets Jim, who is sweet and funny, and watches Glee.

 

—x•x•x—

 

“Office romance,” she says, with a Molly-ish giggle and a faint blush across her cheeks. Sherlock reluctantly glances at the interloper who’s been distracting his pathologist.

“Gay,” he says, and watches the smile slip off her face. He’s disturbed by how much this bothers him.

“Sorry, what?”

“Nothing. Um, hey,” he corrects himself, knowing she isn’t fooled.  He ignores the twisting in his stomach as Jim from IT plays through his little routine with the Petri dishes and the phone number. As Molly confronts him, and he tells her his deductions. He is uncomfortably aware of John’s disapproving presence.

“Why do you always have to spoil— _always_ —“ she breaks off and leaves, the door slamming behind her.

 

He’s never seen her really angry before, he realizes. Irritated, yes. Even scathing, like that time with the hair (he feels the tips of his ears redden at the memory, as they always do). But she’s always been laughing at him too, just a little bit. Like she’s humoring him, and doesn’t care if he knows.

She’s not laughing now, and he suspects the churning in his gut might be called regret.

 

—x•x•x—

 

He kisses her after their third date, and that’s when she dumps him.

Because anyone who can lie so well with their mouth isn’t what she’s looking for, and despite herself she believes Sherlock. He’s almost never wrong.

“It’s him, isn’t it. Sherlock Holmes.” There’s an undertone to his lilting voice that sends a chill right through her, and it’s an effort not to step back.

“He’s an excellent judge of character,” she says coolly, and for some reason this makes him laugh.

 

It’s not a nice laugh.

 

Molly makes her excuses quickly, and she’s still trembling all over when she reaches her flat. She thinks of the darkness in his eyes, and knows with a bone-deep certainty that she’s had a lucky escape.

 

She can’t help but feel a tiny bit grateful to Sherlock Holmes, and can’t help but hate him a little for that.

 

Finding out Jim was a mad bomber two days later doesn’t help.

 

—x•x•x—

 

She won’t speak to him for a month. She still gives him access to the lab, and even body parts, but she leaves promptly at the end of her shifts, and won’t say a word beyond the necessary.

She smiles at John, who watches with half-approval, half-dismay.

 

After a month, she admits to herself that Sherlock is not going to apologize, and she spends a long time and half a bottle of wine thinking about whether or not she can be okay with that. In the end, it’s the cases that decide her. However much of an arse Sherlock is, he helps people. And she wants to be part of that.

 

So the next time they’re in the morgue Molly hands him a coffee, with a quick smile. Black, two sugars. Just the way he likes it.

He accepts her peace offering with nothing more than a curt thank you, but the relief in his eyes _does_ something to her. Finding herself unexpectedly blushing, she buries herself in her slides.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I’m trying to stick pretty close to the canon dialogue, but if you’re attentive you’ll notice a few differences. It was fun trying to recycle the canon events and imagine how they might have occurred with a more confident, non-crushing Molly.
> 
> Also, let it be known that I loathe autocorrect, and also need it desperately. You have been warned.
> 
> Next up, A Scandal in Belgravia, where Sherlock is completely out of his depth ;)
> 
> Please read & review.


	2. Chapter 2

He blames it on the Woman.

She’s dangerous, and beautiful, and has him thinking in ways hasn’t for years. So he’s all out of sorts, and he tells himself that’s why he lashes out at poor, unsuspecting Molly Hooper.

Her cheery voice grates on him the instant she enters the flat. The deductions pour from him, one after the other. He can’t seem to stop himself. Why is she dressed that way? It’s ridiculous, attention grabbing, and, with the exception of the silver bow, so very _not-Molly_. John, Lestrade—he ignores their warnings and swoops down on the shiny red package, flipping open the tag to reveal—

_Dearest Charlie,_

_Happy Christmas, Darling!_

_Love, Molly xxx_

He breaks off mid-deduction, surprised and confused why he is surprised. What was he expecting? Something—not _this_.

 

He closes his eyes briefly against the three sparkling red lines, then forces himself to meet her gaze. She’s...not angry. Not laughing, either. Just wearily unsurprised, as though she’d expected him to do this, to tear into her private life with his sharp deductions and even sharper words.

“Met him at a chippy, a month ago,” she says quietly. Her soft voice sounds loud in the silence. “He’s nice. A painter. Not that it’s your business.”

He’s caught out, keenly aware that he’s done her an injury, and she hasn’t even the decency to look at him accusingly. He swallows past his inner turmoil, and surprises even himself with what he does next.

“I am sorry. Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper.” He doesn’t know why he leans forward, brushing his lips against her cheek. He supposes it’s part of the apology, an obvious step outside of his comfort zone in proof of his sincerity.

He definitely blames the Woman for the unfortunate text alert which sounds just then.

“Sherlock?” Molly’s eyes are wide; she’s clearly confused and uncomfortable.

“My _phone,_ ” he snaps, and the evening only goes downhill from there.

 

—x—

 

He’s obviously unsurprised  by the call to come into the morgue, but he’s shocked to find Molly Hooper standing over the body. He can’t help it, the quick glance at her face and clothes telling him the story. He’s never been able to stop it, this easy reading of all around him. He’s rarely ever wished to before.

Red eyes, hastily removed makeup. Forward black dress replaced by an old and worn jumper, clearly a comfort choice.  Boyfriend ended it. Returned to his ex-girlfriend, most likely— the holiday mood calling up feelings of nostalgia, and a desire to reconnect. Leaving Molly Hooper alone, as the early hours of Christmas Day draw on.

He tries to blame the Woman for the anger and guilt roiling in him, as Molly pulls back the sheet from her battered body. A glance is enough.

“It’s her,” he says, and strides away.

_Sentiment._

It ruins them all.

 

—x—

 

Molly is not having a good night, and she _hates_ that Sherlock Holmes can see it, that he can see her broken relationship and shattered plans with a single glance. She expects—even after that flabbergasting apology earlier—for him to make a curt comment. Some scathing deprecation of her romantic hopes and ability to maintain a relationship.

Instead, he offers her a gentle, “You didn’t have to come in, Molly.”

“That’s okay,” she says, giving him half a twisted smile. “Everyone else was busy with… Christmas things.” _Like Charlie_ , a poisonous little voice whispers, and she looks away as her eyes burn.

She draws back the sheet gently; she’s always gentle with her corpses. It’s the least and the last that she can do for them. It’s a testament to her exhaustion and emotional turmoil that she isn’t more surprised that Sherlock knows a woman intimately enough to identify her this way. Even so, she can’t help asking, when he’s swept off, and his disapproving brother lingers.

“How did he know her by...not her face?” His answer is an appropriate rebuke to her morbid curiosity. Still, as Molly closes up the morgue she finds herself pondering this strange and beautiful woman, who could so thoroughly capture the attention of a man like Sherlock Holmes. She thinks of Charlie again, and finds herself wishing that—that whatever this woman had, Molly could get a bit of it, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is a short one; I wanted to post but wasn't quite finished with season 2. Next chapter will cover TRF.
> 
> The bit with Sherlock opening the tag and being surprised at NOT finding his name was one of the images that made me want to write this, along with the cheek kiss-phone alert. Originally Molly was going to say something along the lines of "WTF Sherlock" when she hears the text because it *obviously* isn't her-but, sadly, it felt wrong for the scene as it ended up. Hopefully something of the sentiment remains.
> 
> As always, kudos and reviews are welcome :)


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